The Misadventure of the Deceptive Detective
by englishtutor
Summary: In which this presumptuous author shamelessly rewrites ACD's "The Adventure of the Dying Detective" by inserting her own AU character, Mary Watson, into an integral role. What will Mary do when Mrs. Hudson pleads for her help with the desperately ill Sherlock? Major spoilers for Sir Arthur's delightful short story.
1. Chapter 1

Holmes once said to Watson, "You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place." But what if it had been Mary Watson, not John, who answered Mrs. Hudson's desperate plea for help when Sherlock fell ill in ACD's classic "The Adventure of the Dying Detective"? Mary never lies, but she is not above deceit. Here's what I believe would have happened.

All the best lines in this story belong to Sir Arthur, with my gratitude and apologies, and I have marked them with asterisks. It is my hope that, if nothing else, my little story might encourage the uninitiated to go back to canon and read this great man's work.

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He huffed a breath of impatient relief as he heard the street door burst open and Mrs. Hudson's fussy bustle to greet the visitor. He threw himself into his bed and began to artfully disarray the bedclothes.

"About time," he muttered to himself. But then he froze in disbelief. The person at the door was not John. "Mary," he sighed, frustrated. He had a sinking feeling that all of his careful plans were about to be for naught.

"Thank goodness you're here, dear." Mrs. Hudson, he realized with a shock, was sobbing. His landlady was a long-suffering woman,* he reflected. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters, but Sherlock knew his eccentric and irregular lifestyle must have sorely tried her patience.* He was aware that his incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst tenant in London.* On the other hand, his payments were princely.* He liked to think that this made up for much. It always surprised him, however, that she also seemed to be quite fond of him. Apparently, she was upset over his imminent demise. How tedious. But also, perhaps, how heart-warming? How trying it was to have to deal with his own feelings at a time like this.

"He's dying, Mary," she was quavering with a catch in her voice. "He's so thin and pale and won't eat a bite. He hasn't stirred from his bed in three days."

"Now, Mrs. Hudson," he could hear Mary say soothingly. "He's always thin and pale, and he often goes days without eating or getting out of bed. That passes as normal for him, you know that."

"I keep bringing him his tea, and there it sits, untouched," the motherly older woman went on. This brought a gasp in response.

"Won't drink his tea? For three days?" Mary mused, now sounding concerned.

"Nor any water, either. And he's feverish, too. I know a feverish eye when I see one!" his landlady persisted. "And the feverish spots on his cheeks. And now he rants on and on about oysters."

"Oysters?" Mary inquired with worry in her tone. He could tell Mrs. Hudson was beginning to convince her of his illness. "What do you mean, oysters?"

"He's delirious, raving in his fever. 'I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters,' he says.* 'Shall the world be overrun by oysters?' he says.* Oh, it's been horrible, dear, horrible, this whole week with you and John in Dublin," Mrs. Hudson lamented, sniffling. "He's been deteriorating more and more each day. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the most deplorable.*"

Sherlock astonished himself by feeling touched by her words and castigated himself for it. "Sentiment—a waste of energy," he murmured, trying to be scathing. He almost succeeded.

"Feverish, and no water for three days! Why on earth have you not called an ambulance?" Mary now sounded quite alarmed, her voice growing louder as she approached the stairs. "He should be in hospital!"

Mrs. Hudson was now weeping in earnest. "You know what he's like, Mary. He wouldn't hear of it. Shouted at me, and even threw a bolster at me when I pressed him on it."

"Oh, I'd better run on up and see to him myself, then," Mary said in her most professional, doctor-voice. Her light, quick footsteps could be heard on the stair, and soon she appeared in his doorway. It was do or die in earnest now, he knew. Mary did not suffer fools gladly, nor did she suffer being fooled. Still, if he could pull off this act with Mary, he could certainly convince anyone. He merely had to keep her at a distance. At four feet in a darkened room, he might be able to deceive her. Let her get a closer look, or worse yet, let her touch his decidedly unfeverish skin, and all would be lost.

"Sherlock?" she whispered gently. "Are you awake, Sweetheart?"

"Mary? Is that you?" he rasped in the weak, trembling voice he had perfected over the past three days. "I seem to have fallen upon evil days.*"

"There, there, I'm here now. We'll get you back to health before you know it," she assured him, poised to enter the room.

"I didn't call for you. I called for John," Sherlock fussed peevishly. "Go away and send John to me. He's my physician and I want him here. You've both been gone for an age. I thought the oysters might have. . . . Ah, my mind wanders . . . . No doubt they have natural enemies which limit the increase of the creatures.*" Here he trailed off pathetically as if forgetting what he was saying. It was a masterful touch.

"John stayed in Dublin to get Harry sorted and back into rehab. His phone is off—I haven't been able to reach him," Mary told him regretfully, apparently deciding not to address the oyster issue. "I've left him a voice mail. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can. But I'm a doctor, too, you know, dear. I came as soon as Mrs. Hudson called me. I can look after you as well as John can." She began to approach his bedside.

"Don't come near!" he commanded sharply. "Stay back! Stand well back! If you don't I shall order you out of the house!*" For the past three days he had practiced on Mrs. Hudson the knack of speaking with both the fragility of illness and the imperiousness of one who is master of his own fate. He thought he had it down. Mary was having none of it.

"Don't be an ass, Sweetheart," she told him, and came in anyway.

Imperiousness never worked with Mary. At best, she found it amusing. He would have to try a difference tactic. "Please, Mary. It's for your own sake, I beg of you," he pleaded pitifully.

She paused. "What do you mean, for my sake?"

"I know what is the matter with me,*" he croaked hoarsely. It was hard on his throat, but if he could make her keep her distance it would be worth it. "It's a rare and little known tropical disease. I was working on a case among some dock-workers who had just arrived from Sumatra and came into contact with it. It is infallibly deadly and it is horribly contagious.*"

''Good heavens, Sweetheart! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant?* It would not affect me in the case of a stranger.* Do you imagine it would prevent me from helping my dearest friend?*" Mary sounded both exasperated and desperately fearful now. Dearest friend? Sherlock frowned. This was becoming an annoyingly emotional encounter. Couldn't people just do what he asked without all this fuss? He could see that he would be forced to use Mary's greatest weakness against her in order to have his way. She could forgive him later—she always forgave him, whatever he did, didn't she?


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, all the best lines are stolen directly from dear Sir Arthur, with my apologies, and are marked with asterisks.

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"Please, Mary," Sherlock gasped as if fighting for every breath. "I want John to remember me with friendship. But how will his memories of me be anything but angry and resentful if I should cause your demise as well as my own?"

Mary's kindly blue eyes filled with tears. Yes, it was working! She would obey his every wish now! He pressed on. "And think of his bereavement, should he lose us both at once. Don't put that on my conscience. Please, if you love him, stay well back."

She sniffed softly, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and blew her nose. "My lovely idiot," she murmured endearingly, using her second favorite pet name for him and palming the tears from her eyes. "But, Sherlock," she sighed. "You are not yourself.* A sick man is nothing but a child, and so I will treat you as a child*. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them.*" And into the room she started again.

Mary Watson was undeniably the most intractably stubborn human being on the face of the earth. Yet another change in tactics was clearly called for. He glared at her with venomous eyes* and snarled, "If I am to have a doctor whether I want one or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence.*"

She stopped short again. It was strange, how the bitter hurt in her face made his chest ache. "Then you have none in me?" she whispered sadly, and his iron resolve nearly faltered. But The Work must be paramount!

"In your friendship, certainly,*" he assured her in his weak voice. "But facts are facts, Mary, and after all you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications.* It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.*"

Mary was very still for a moment. This time, surely, he could convince her to do as he asked. But would it be worth it? She was obviously grievously stung by his blunt words. He was beginning to wonder if solving a case would be worth losing her valuable friendship. But he must not waver. He must focus on The Work!

"That remark was unworthy of you, Sherlock*," she said at last, generous with her forgiveness as always. "But I'll chalk it up to your illness and the fever. Are you certain that this can be nothing but this rare disease you came into contact with?"

He nodded. At last, they were getting somewhere!

Mary whipped out her mobile. "Well, then, I'll get Mycroft on it right away. If anyone can find a specialist who can help you, he can. I'm surprised you didn't call him yourself before this." She looked at the sour face he was making and amended, "No, of course, you'd rather die than ask your brother for help." She sighed and punched the speed dial. This was not worrisome—Mycroft was well aware of the situation and had arranged to be unavailable for the time being.

"Bloody useless British Government!" Mary exclaimed in frustration as she got onto Mycroft's voice mail. "Well, that's it, then, I'm calling an ambulance and getting you into hospital immediately. At the very least, they can hook you up to an IV to treat your dehydration and make you comfortable until . . . ." Her breath hitched in a sob as she punched the emergency number into her phone.

Sherlock groaned showily, inwardly pleased. She was putty in his hands now. He must strike while the iron was hot, to completely mix his metaphors! "Please, no hospital, Mary," he moaned. "They can't help me. There's no specialist that can help me. There's only one man who might have a cure, but his research is unorthodox and unaccepted by legitimate medical facilities. I hesitate to ask you to go outside the law, but . . . ." he trailed off dramatically, then softly added, "It is the only hope I have."

She looked at him, frowning in thought. Time hung suspended between them as she cast about, weighing the options in her mind. "All right," she said at last, to his great relief. "We'll do this your way. Always your way to the very end, right? Hold tight, I'll just be a moment."

Sherlock watched her rush out of the room, bewildered. His plan did not include Mary going off on whatever errand she had suddenly invented for herself; she was meant to be hanging on his every word for his explicit instructions. And then she was meant to be carrying out said instructions to the letter. If only John had come instead of Mary—he could be depended on to behave predictably.

In bustled the unpredictable Mary carrying the medical kit John kept in his old room and another case which Sherlock wasn't certain he'd seen before. Snapping on a pair of surgical gloves and pulling a mask over her face, she walked over to his bedside. Swiftly, she put together an IV pole and set it up beside his bed. "Fortunately for you, John has been stocking up on all kinds of medical equipment, since you're so loathe to go to hospital," she informed him.

"Mary," he croaked in his raspiest voice. "I asked you to stay well back. Please, it's pointless to risk yourself when there's nothing you can do."

"Don't be an idiot," she told him sternly. "You'll die from dehydration before we ever get hold of your miracle man. I can at least get you on a saline drip to keep you alive for the time being." She had just doomed his entire endeavor. The charade was over. Now he was in for it. He held his breath for the inevitable.

She took his arm and began to push up his sleeve, and then she froze. She looked into his face, seeing it clearly for the first time in the dim light of the bedroom. Then she pressed her lips tightly together, that tell-tale little muscle in her cheek twitching as it always did when she was angry, and snapped on the bedside lamp, throwing the room into a brightness that illuminated all deception.

"Sherlock Holmes! You bloody bastard! You're no more ill than I am!" she exclaimed, furious.

"Mary!" He was astonished by her language. John was certainly a poor influence on her vocabulary.

She pulled off her mask and threw it at him. "You insufferable, self-centered, heartless, imbecilic beast!" she continued, and snapped off her gloves to throw in his face as, in a deceptively calm and quiet voice, she let loose a stream of invectives that would have made even John proud, turning the very air around them a hazy shade of blue. As she pronounced him fit for the deepest pits of hell, she continued to snatch items from his bedside table and throw them at him: a box of tissues, a phone charger, a paperback book.

And then her hand stretched to pick up a small, wooden Chinese puzzle box. "No! For god's sake, don't touch it!" he cried, his heart leaping in his chest in sudden stark terror. She snatched her hand back, and looked at him in astonishment. He now felt truly ill, his stomach churning with the horror which had almost occurred. And now he suddenly understood Mary's fury, as he considered how he would have felt watching her die a painful death from the poison to which she had so nearly unwittingly exposed herself. Astonishing, how quickly fear could turn to anger.

He sat up and tried to take her hands in his, but she was too hurt to let him touch her. "Stop, Mary, calm down and let me explain," he insisted firmly. But did Mary Watson ever do as she was told?

"Oh, if you try to tell me that this was an experiment in human emotional response, I'll wring your neck!" she hissed at him. "Do you know that poor Mrs. Hudson is downstairs right now crying her eyes out and planning for your funeral? After all the kindness she's shown you, how could you do this to her?"

"It was for a case. And is she really?" Sherlock's curiosity was piqued in spite of himself. "What do you think she'll say in her eulogy?"

"She'll say what an annoying git you are and how you tormented her relentlessly day by day," Mary told him scathingly. "The entire crowd of mourners, all bloody three of us joining her at your graveside, will say the same. That is if John can persuade the police to let me off with a warning when they investigate your murder. Honestly, I don't know whether to strangle you with my bare hands or go and fetch John's gun."

"Surely there must be a third option," Sherlock mused thoughtfully, unintentionally succeeding in making her laugh. And suddenly, without warning, she threw her arms around him in a heartfelt embrace.

"I really believed you were dying," she told the bewildered consulting detective. "Thank god you're all right. I hate you right now. I'm definitely going to kill you as soon as I've finished hugging you."

Sherlock may not have meant for this venture to be an experiment in human emotional response, but he was certainly gaining an education in spite of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Although we now switch to Mary's point of view, the best lines are still lifted directly from ACD's text and are marked with asterisks. Please excuse my complete lack of medical knowledge. All I know is what I find on the internet!

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Mary pulled away from her impulsive hug and tried to control her trembling. The roller coaster of emotion he had forced her to ride upon that day was exhausting—from the initial jolt of adrenaline at the time of Mrs. Hudson's tearful phone call, to her gradual realization that this was not the dramatic exaggeration of the landlady's motherly concern, to the despairing acceptance that she might be about to lose a beloved friend. And now to find it had all been a trick! She was both bitterly hurt by his deception and infuriated at being so used by him.

"If you had only stayed back as I asked," Sherlock was admonishing her, "we could be well on the way to wrapping up the case by now. John would have done as I asked," he added, visibly aggrieved by her uncooperative nature.

"Well, I'm not John, am I? John choses to think the best of you," Mary informed him impatiently. "He wants to believe you'd never tell him a lie."

"He'd have forgiven me. It's for a case," Sherlock insisted petulantly.

Before Mary could respond, her phone vibrated. "It's John," she announced, turning accusing eyes to his. She hated having caused John needless worry. She would have to put a good face on the situation. Didn't he already have his hands full with Harry being so intractable?" "Hullo, darling," she said calmly into the phone.

"I just got your message. What's going on?" John demanded, sounding concerned.

"A false alarm, Captain," she reassured him. "Sherlock's being a thoughtless, annoying prat, but what else is new? I have things well in hand."

"What's he done now?" John sighed, weariness in his tone.

"I'm not exactly sure yet, but I'm going to get to the bottom of it presently, and then I'll call you back and tell you all," Mary told him grimly.

"Shall I come home and help you dispose of the body?" he asked, understanding her tone.

She chuckled at that. "No, I've already decided to dismember him and bury him under the floor in 221C," she informed him.

"Well, you know best," he replied agreeably. "I trust your judgement entirely."

His familiar voice made her long for the comfort of his arms. "I miss you," she whispered.

"I'll be home soon," he promised. "I'll have Harry sorted before too much longer."

After a few more endearments, which caused a good deal of eye-rolling on Sherlock's part, she hung up and turned on him. "Get up and put something on," she commanded him, waving her right index finger in his face. "I can't talk to you seriously while you're lying in bed. I'm going to go down and relieve Mrs. Hudson's mind, and when I come back up we're going to have a conversation."

After informing the kindly landlady of the truth and persuading her to lie down with a cold compress on her head, Mary marched back upstairs to battle. She was gratified to see the detective had pulled a dressing gown on over his inside-out T-shirt and pajama bottoms and was slumped in his leather armchair with an air of gloomy impatience surrounding him. The make-up he had artfully applied to make himself appear feverish and emaciated was still distorting his facial features and made her shake again with fury.

"Mary, time is of the essence," he began in his most commanding voice, obviously trying to regain control of the situation. She knew better than to allow him to think he could get the upper hand under any circumstances.

"You just sit there and think about what you've done," she told him, choosing to treat him like an errant schoolboy. "I can't deal with you until I've had some tea."

The very act of making tea calmed her raveled nerves and she felt fit to face him at last. Pointedly not offering him a cup, she curled up in John's armchair and said imperiously, "Speak."

"This is John's fault, you know. He started me on this line of inquiry," Sherlock began.

"John is completely faultless; this is entirely your own doing," Mary corrected him, perhaps a bit biased.

Ignoring her interruption, Sherlock continued. "The day before you left for Dublin, John pointed out an article in the paper concerning the death of a young man called Victor Savage. It was reported that he had contracted _Naegleria fowleri_ while traveling in America and died soon after his return. John was disgusted with the faulty knowledge of the physician who treated the young man. 'The idiot seems to have no knowledge of geography,' he told me. 'This poor boy was a thousand miles away from any area in America that is affected by this amoeba.'"

Mary nodded. "He was obsessing about it that evening, when he ought to have been packing for Dublin," she agreed. "He said while the symptoms were vaguely similar to this disease, they were not identical; and the amoeba must be introduced through the nose, which would be impossible unless one were to swim in water infested with it. He could not believe it possible for a reputable physician to have made such a mistake. He finally decided the newspaper was mistaken in its reporting. And the boy's only living relative seemed to be satisfied with the diagnosis, so no further investigation would be forthcoming."

"Yes, it was," Sherlock informed her. "I respect John's professional opinion over that of any other physician. I was certain he was right and set about to prove it. I discovered that this only living relative, an uncle called Culverton Smith, was involved in medical research and has a laboratory on his private estate. This man Smith has claimed to have found cures for a number of rare diseases, but his methods are considered so unorthodox and ill-conceived that no legitimate medical establishment will accept his research. I also discovered that Victor Savage, the son of Smith's sister, had inherited a great deal of money from his father and that he died intestate—all of his wealth automatically went to his only living relative."

"And Smith, I suppose, was in great need of money to continue his maverick research," Mary concluded.

"Exactly," Sherlock nodded, pleased that she was listening in spite of her injured feelings. "I broke into his laboratory and found a number of vials of rare and fatal diseases, one of which exactly matched the symptoms Savage had suffered. John was right—it was a strain of virus which is both deadly and rare, existing only in the jungles of Asia. It was obvious to me that Smith had caused his nephew to contract this dangerous disease upon his return from America in order to gain control of the young man's estate. He would, of course, have bribed his doctor to claim Savage's death was due to a disease he might have contracted in America.

"I then brought my suspicions to Lestrade, but although he tried several avenues of inquiry, without any legally obtained evidence we were stymied. Smith would not allow an autopsy, and their family physician was obstinately standing by his original diagnosis. Then Smith himself provided the answer."

"That Chinese puzzle box," Mary nodded. "I wondered what it was about it that made you scream like a scalded dog."

"I did not scream. I merely expressed my concern for your safety," Sherlock protested with excessive dignity.

"You screamed like a schoolgirl on the playground," Mary informed him, her dimples deepening with mischief.

Sherlock, with a long-suffering look, chose to ignore her teasing. "I had made no secret of my suspicions against Smith, even confronting him in person the second day of my investigations. So when a mysterious package appeared on the doorstep the next day, with no return address, it took no great leap of the imagination to deduce from whom it had come. I opened it with the greatest caution and found the Chinese puzzle box as you surmised. There were no fingerprints on it, which is in itself suspicious, and careful examination showed the presence of a sharp spring, like a viper's tooth, which emerges as you open it.* I daresay it was by some such device that poor Savage was done to death.*

"So you thought that, by pretending that Smith had really succeeded in his design, that you might surprise a confession.*" Mary concluded. "But in order to complete this deception, did you really feel you had to lie to me?"

"I never meant for you to be involved in any way, Mary," Sherlock said sincerely. "I am aware of your fear of loss, and I have promised John never to presume upon your courage in that area again. I knew your itinerary, that you were to have returned to work in the clinic today and that John expected to be here at his usual time this morning. This was perfect for my plan, as today is the fourth day after the box's arrival and Smith would expect me to be very near the end and suffering enough to permit a friend to call upon him for relief. When John didn't arrive, I asked Mrs. Hudson to call him. I was not aware that, being unable to reach him, she had taken it upon herself to call you. I would have stopped her, had I known."

"Is the fact that you had planned to lie only to John and Mrs. Hudson meant to make me feel happier about this strategy of yours?" Mary demanded, in a dangerous mood.

"Do you really think that John would be offended, Mary? You and he must both realize that among his many talents dissimulation finds no place,*" Sherlock returned earnestly. "If he shared my secret, he would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme.* Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that Smith would come to look upon his handiwork.* But I could not be the one to ask him to come. The request had to come from John, and Mrs. Hudson also had to be convincing as she let him into the house."

Mary considered this for a moment. "It's true that John has such a beautifully honest nature that he has no talent for deception," she agreed at last. "I don't agree with your methods, Sherlock, but I understand the thought process behind them. You've spent three days laying this trap for this despicable murderer. Give me his phone number and I'll complete your plan for you. No sense allowing him to escape justice because of my own offended sensibilities."

Sherlock now looked perplexed. "You want to help me? But you said you hated me," he said wonderingly.

She glared at him. "Oh, I do! Intensely! I expect I shall for a good part of the day. But I hate this murdering, inhuman monster who was trying to kill you even more. I want him in prison as much as you do. Let me call him and we'll get this over with."

The detective was still all at sea. "But Mary, you never lie," he reminded her.

"True. But that doesn't mean I'm incapable of it. On the contrary, I long ago abandoned the dark side and determined to use my powers only for good," Mary smiled.

Sherlock frowned. "Your powers?"

"With great power comes great responsibility," Mary informed him.

Sherlock looked as if she were speaking in an unknown tongue.

Mary sighed. "I don't lie because I'm bloody good at it," she explained plainly. "If you need someone who is an expert in dissimulation, I'm your girl."

Sherlock's lips curved into a pleased grin.

"However," Mary continued sternly, "you are still in deep waters. Don't you think you're getting away with this! You will pay for what you've done to me and Mrs. Hudson, as soon as this case is solved."

Sherlock's grin disappeared, replaced by a look of chagrin.


	4. Chapter 4

As usual, all the best bits are stolen directly from ACD and are marked with asterisks.

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Culverton Smith refused to take his calls, and so Mary set out in a cab to his Lower Burke Street home, a fine house lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington.* The particular one at which the cabbie pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork.* Mary rang the bell and a young man, obviously a lab assistant enveloped in a white coat and a professional air, opened the door.

"I'll see if he's free to see you, Dr. Watson," the young chap by the name of Staples told her after she introduced herself. As she stood in the entry hall waiting, Mary pinched her cheeks to make them redder and to bring tears to her eyes. She had practiced this look before she left Baker Street, contriving to seem professional but at the same time personally affected by her patient's condition.

Her humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton Smith. * Through the half-open door to his office, Mary heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.*

"Who is this person? What does she want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"* she heard Smith complain. "I don't know any Watsons, do I? Tell her I can't have my work interrupted! Tell her I'm not at home! Tell her to come back in the morning if she really must see me!"*

Mary, affecting the air of a doctor on a mission to save her patient, walked to the door of the office, pushed past the ineffective Mr. Staples, and stepped into the room with the odious Mr. Culverton Smith. She saw rising from his chair a figure with a greasy, yellow face complete with a heavy double chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at her from under tufted and sandy brows*. His bald head seemed to her enormous, completely out of proportion with his small and frail body.

"What's this?" he cried, in a high, screaming voice.*

"I am sorry, Mr. Smith," she said soothingly, using her best and most reassuring professional tone, "but this matter cannot be delayed.* I've come on behalf of my patient, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The mention of her friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man.* The look of anger passed in an instant from his face and his features became tense and alert.* "What about Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded.

"I have just left him," she explained. "He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."* She affected a careful look of concern. As she spoke, a malicious and abominable smile* swiftly crossed his face and vanished in an instant.

"I am sorry to hear this," he said, sounding sincere. "I have every respect for Mr. Holmes' talents. He is an expert in crime as I am of disease.* For him the villain, for me the microbe.* There are my prisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table.* "Among those gelatin cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time."*

Mary bit her lip, refusing to allow her personal feelings to interfere with her job. This disgusting creature dared to try to murder her friend, but it was not for her to seek retaliation. She must do her job.

"It was on account of your special knowledge that I have come to ask you for help," she explained, contriving to look desperate. "You see, he is not only a patient but a great personal friend. The disease from which he suffers has no cure known to my profession. But I have heard that you may be able to help him through less orthodox means. He has through some dealings with a foreign client contracted a rare tropical disease, and I believe it is one of which you have had some experience."

"How long has he been ill?"*

"About three days,"* she told him, allowing tears to stand in her eyes.

"Is he delirious?"*

"Occasionally."* She allowed her voice to quiver a bit. "His fever is dangerously high and cannot be controlled with medications."

"Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to come to his aid, Dr. Watson. I will come with you at once."*

"Thank you, Mr. Smith. I have a taxi waiting for us outside." Mary gave him a trembling smile of relief and led the way out.

Upon reaching Sherlock's flat, Mary let Mr. Smith in and directed him up the stairs. "I will remain down here, if you don't mind," she said softly. "My friend has insisted that I stay out of this business, as it would not bode well with my professional reputation. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," he replied courteously, and nimbly and eagerly made his way up. Mary watched him until he entered the open door to the flat and then rushed through the door of 221A. There she found Mrs. Hudson serving tea and blueberry scones to D.I. Lestrade, who was relaxing at her kitchen table. Greg stood when she entered and gave her a hug.

"Dear Mary," Mrs. Hudson welcomed her warmly. "I've kept your tea hot for you." They all settled around the recording device that was wired to Sherlock's bedroom to hear the detective's plan unfold as they enjoyed their tea.

"I hope you know I had no idea of his plans, Mary," Greg said sincerely, and she perceived that he had just been given an earful by the aggrieved Mrs. Hudson. "I would never have gone along with such a scheme."

"I know," she assured him, squeezing his hand.

"Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Through the receiver, they could hear Sherlock whisper painfully. "I hardly dared hope that you would come."*

Lestrade snorted. "He's dead convincing. If I didn't know better, I'd believe him to be on death's door."

Then came the sound of Mr. Smith laughing coldly. "I should imagine not."*

"It is very good of you," Sherlock rasped on. "I appreciate your special knowledge."*

The visitor sniggered. "You do. You are the only man in London who does."*

The trio in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen listened in awed amusement as Sherlock expertly lured his prey into admitting to killing Victor Savage and attempting to kill Sherlock himself with the contaminated Chinese puzzle box.

"I'll just take my box with me in my pocket," Smith said smugly. "There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die."*

"That's it. That's all we need," Lestrade said, disgusted with the callousness of the culprit. "Let's go get this bastard. If I have to listen to that whining voice one more minute I shall become murderous myself."

By the time Lestrade and Mary arrived in Sherlock's room, the detective had risen from his deathbed and was towering over the shrunken Mr. Smith, casually pulling on his dressing gown.

"What is the meaning of this?" Smith was saying in an affronted tone.

"I suddenly find myself feeling a good deal better," Sherlock replied in a confiding tone. "Although the best way of successfully acting a part is to be it.* I have indeed gone for three days without food or water. But here are some friends to bring me my tea. Hello, Detective Inspector."

"Sherlock," Lestrade greeted the detective genially. "I appreciate your help in this case. Mrs. Hudson is bringing you a tray directly." He turned upon the now ashen little criminal and pronounced grandly, "I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage."*

"Please add the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes," Mary reminded him indignantly as Lestrade handcuffed the man and gingerly removed the damning Chinese box from his pocket.

"A nice trap! He asked me for his help, and I came out of the goodness of my heart. Now he'll pretend I've said things that corroborate his insane suspicions.* Lie all you like," Smith snarled in his irritating, high voice. "My word is always as good as yours."*

"True, true, your word is as good as his," Lestrade assured him, amused. "And it's your own words that will convict you, on the tape I have running downstairs. Have you never heard of microphones?" He removed said object from its hiding place on the bedside table and turned to Sherlock. "Come to the Yard when you're cleaned up, to give your statement, if you don't mind. And thanks for your persistence in this case. A cold-blooded murderer would still be lose on society if not for you." And with that, he led the cowed suspect out to his waiting vehicle.

Mrs. Hudson arrived in the kitchen with the tray. "Wash that horrible make-up off your face and come have your tea," she instructed Sherlock.

"I've never needed it more,"* Sherlock assured her. He went into the loo and began to remove all evidence of illness. Mary stood watching him silently.

"You owe us," she told him at last. "The time has come to pay your debts."

"Nonsense! It was for a case!" Sherlock insisted, drying his face on a towel.

Mary ignored that and continued as if he hadn't spoken. "We will all dress in our best and you will treat us to dinner at Wright Brothers in Soho," she informed him. "All your talk of oysters has made me hungry for seafood. I made reservations for eight o'clock while I was in the cab going to Culverton Smith's. But for the moment, you must go and apologize to Mrs. Hudson for frightening her so. She loves you to bits, and you abused her sorely this week."

Sherlock stared at her stubbornly. She stared back, the little muscle in her cheek twitching. Then she raised her right index finger and waved it at him. "Now," she said quietly. "And be charming. I know you have it in you."

He contritely stepped into the kitchen and complied.


	5. Chapter 5

I've never truly been satisfied with how quickly Watson forgave Holmes in the original story. Holmes' abuse of his friend's trust and loyalty was sorely trying and I have always wished this had been more thoroughly addressed. So here is my attempt, as Steven Moffat once stated, to comfort my twelve-year-old self, and deal with the Deceptive Detective.

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After being confined to his bedroom for three days, Sherlock had no desire to enter that room again for some time. He sat up in his leather armchair until the wee hours of the morning, filing the details of the Culverton Smith case in his mind palace. But thoughts of Mary kept interrupting his work.

She had been determined that he should expend himself in making things right with Mrs. Hudson. And he had to admit that he'd suffered far more unpleasant fates than escorting two worthy and beautiful women to dinner; and anyway, he had used Mycroft's credit card to pay for it, so the evening had been relatively painless. Mary had also instructed him to stop and buy flowers for his long-suffering landlady on the way home from the Yard that afternoon, and Mrs. Hudson's delight had been surprisingly heart-warming. As he had suspected, the elderly woman was quick to forgive and understand after an initial outburst of indignant outrage over tea that afternoon, and he felt confident that this incident would not damage their relationship in any permanent manner.

But Mary. . . . John had explained to him nearly two years ago that Mary was afraid of only one thing—the loss of someone dear to her. She had successfully held the world at arm's length for most of her life, avoiding any meaningful relationships which might end painfully. But when she met John, she'd made the choice to take a chance and open her heart to him. And that choice, to Sherlock's amazement, had included embracing John's friends. Mary had loved Sherlock with an unqualified sisterly affection from the very first and had quickly become his greatest ally and supporter. When even John lost patience with the detective, Mary always stood up for him. "Leave him alone," she would admonish her husband gently. "He's only doing his job."

In fact, Sherlock had never seen her lose her patience with anyone as she had with him this day. Although she had willingly worked with him on the case and had guided him through the process of apologizing to Mrs. Hudson, she had been coldly distant to him in manner and had swept off to bed in John's old bedroom without a word when they returned from dinner that night. Could it be that he had at last crossed a line and she was unable to forgive him? Had he actually asked for her forgiveness? He found the prospect of losing her stalwart friendship to be more troubling than he could ever have predicted.

A small, muffled sob broke the silence of the flat, effectively raising the hair on the back of his neck with its haunting, heart-felt grief. That one tiny sound had the effect of teaching him the reason for John's protective attitude towards his wife's emotional well-being more completely than any amount of explanation could have done. Sherlock found in himself an inexplicable desire to go any lengths to prevent Mary any source of grief ever again.

Irresistibly, he was drawn to the door of her room. It was not closed, and he stepped quietly to her bedside, lit but dimly by the street light creeping through the cracks around the window blinds. There was the strong and fearless Mary, curled around a pillow with her face buried in it, her body shaking with silent sobs in her sleep. It was terrifying to him to realize that he had done this—he had reduced a supremely confident and fiercely courageous young woman to tears.

He had no idea how fix what he had done. Would she be angry with him for entering her room without permission? Would she be humiliated to have been discovered in this state? But could he leave her here, gripped in nightmares, without interference? Tentatively he reached out and gently touched her shoulder to wake her. She stirred, and blue eyes opened, at first grief-stricken, then uncertain and confused, and then warm with relief.

He knew he ought to say something at this point, but he could not fathom what that might be. Normally, he would look to Mary herself to guide him through this unbearably human maze of emotion, but he could not expect her to help him this time. "Mary, I . . . I . . . ," he began, and racked his brain for some way to express how sorry he was for grieving her. "I . . . am going to make you some tea," he managed to say at last.

A twinkle in those blue eyes and a pair of dimples appearing in her cheeks rewarded him, and he knew she had accepted his heartfelt apology.

The kettle boiled and the tea steeped, and Sherlock stepped into the sitting room with the steaming cuppa fixed just the way he knew she liked it, to find Mary wrapped in one of John's old dressing gowns and curled up in John's armchair, looking like herself again. He handed her the cup without a word and dropped into the leather chair opposite, and together they sat in silence for some time.

Then Mary spoke, looking down into her cup. "Before I met John, I had nightmares sometimes—my mother would disappear again; or my father would put me on that airplane and send me away to strangers once more; or people I had come to depend upon would prove untrustworthy, or worse. But although those dreams were troubling, they didn't frighten me. They represented the past, and I had lived through those times and I overcame them. As long as I never again allowed myself to rely on or care for anyone else, I would be safe from that kind of harm."

Now she looked at Sherlock. "I put that philosophy aside for John. I realized quickly that he was worth any amount of risk. And now, when I have nightmares, they terrify me. It's always the same: John disappears, and you disappear, and I'm left alone again; only instead of the protective aloneness I enforced on myself before, it's a wrenching, disabling, and painful amputation. I'm sorry you saw me in that state."

"I understand your fearing John's death," Sherlock replied slowly. "He's your spouse and life-partner. But why am I included in this fear? I'm only your friend."

She smiled fondly at him. "You make the same mistake so many make in believing that friendship is somehow less important or passionate than romantic love. I have not had a true friend since I was sixteen years old, but you are certainly the dearest and best friend I've ever had, more like a brother to me. Your loss would break my heart, and John's as well."

"I realize now that I ought to have deserted my plan the moment I realized you had come instead of John," Sherlock admitted, and was shocked that Mary's gentle eyes flashed with anger again.

"You should never have had such a plan in the first place!" she declared, her cheek twitching. "Do you not understand yet how much John cares for you? You're his best friend. Planning to make him believe he was about to lose you was cruel and thoughtless."

He opened his mouth to protest, but her insidious right index finger was lifted against him and he was rendered speechless.

"Don't even try to tell me 'it was for a case'! I unequivocally forbid you to ever do such a thing again," she told him firmly. "Yes, John would forgive you, eventually, but you presume too much on his loyalty. And this wasn't even for a compelling reason! This was no genius mastermind you had to outwit. This was an overblown, egotistical, and thoroughly predictable common crook. With your superior mind, you ought to have been able to come with a plan to defeat him without grieving your closest friends," she concluded.

"You're right, Mary," he agreed when she allowed him to speak. "If I had known your talent at lying, I'd have come to you with the plan in the first place. This is a useful tool," he mused, his train of thought wandering into the realms of possibility that an expert liar at his disposal could present. She cleared her throat, bringing him back to the subject at hand. "I promise I will never deliberately abuse John's friendship again, nor yours. Nor Mrs. Hudson's," he added hastily, seeing it in her eyes. He had a moment of doubt as he wondered whether she would expect him to include Lestrade in this restriction; but Mary knew his limits even better than he did and did not press the issue.

"There now," she grinned at him, her natural good humor now fully restored. "Isn't this better?"

He was not sure about that. After all, there was still John to face when he came home, and nothing incurred John's wrath more quickly than anyone's hurting Mary. "Perhaps, now that this is settled between us, we can neglect to mention this incident to John," he suggested. "Omission is not truly deception."

She laughed at him, and he realized that she had already told John all. "I don't keep things from John. And neither should you. If you are to be partners, you should never keep information from him," she told him. "We don't lie to John."

"The last time I upset you, John stole my Stradivarius," he muttered glumly, fearing the worst.

"He certainly did," the object of John's fiercely protective affection agreed cheerfully. "And really, that time he was only rather annoyed with you. This time, he will certainly be in a towering rage. You ought to prepare yourself to endure it; and I strongly suggest you portray a contrite and penitent manner and give self-defense a miss." She smiled at his dismal and resigned expression. "Don't worry, Sweetheart, I'll be your advocate. I can do a much better job of defending you than you can," she assured him fondly. "Now, repeat after me. We do not lie to John."

"We do not lie to John," Sherlock said sullenly, and pouted. However, he had to admit that he was thankful for her patient friendship. She was a most valuable ally. "All this . . . caring . . . is very trying," he complained.

She chuckled affectionately and, rising from her chair, kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, too," she said gently, and then took herself off to bed, leaving him looking after her in bemusement.

It confounded him that, no matter what he did or said, she always knew exactly what he meant.


End file.
